by John Dryden
Sir,
Your most humble,
And most faithful servant,
John Dryden.
PROLOGUE.
Prologues, like bells to churches, toll you in
With chiming verse, till the dull plays begin;
With this sad difference though, of pit and pew,
You damn the poet, but the priest damns you:
But priests can treat you at your own expence,
And gravely call you fools without offence.
Poets, poor devils, have ne’er your folly shown,
But, to their cost, you proved it was their own:
For, when a fop’s presented on the stage,
Straight all the coxcombs in the town engage;
For his deliverance and revenge they join,
And grunt, like hogs, about their captive swine.
Your poets daily split upon this shelf, —
You must have fools, yet none will have himself.
Or if, in kindness, you that leave would give,
No man could write you at that rate you live:
For some of you grow fops with so much haste,
Riot in nonsense, and commit such waste,
‘Twould ruin poets should they spend so fast.
He, who made this, observed what farces hit,
And durst not disoblige you now with wit.
But, gentlemen, you over-do the mode;
You must have fools out of the common road.
Th’ unnatural strained buffoon is only taking;
No fop can please you now of God’s own making.
Pardon our poet, if he speaks his mind;
You come to plays with your own follies lined:
Small fools fall on you, like small showers, in vain;
Your own oiled coats keep out all common rain.
You must have Mamamouchi, such a fop
As would appear a monster in a shop;
He’ll fill your pit and boxes to the brim,
Where, rain’d in crowds, you see yourselves in him.
Sure there’s some spell, our poet never knew,
In Hullibabilah de, and Chu, chu, chu;
But Marababah sahem most did touch you;
That is, Oh how we love the Mamamouchi!
Grimace and habit sent you pleased away:
You damned the poet, and cried up the play.
This thought had made our author more uneasy,
But that he hopes I’m fool enough to please ye.
But here’s my grief, — though nature, joined with art,
Have cut me out to act a fooling part,
Yet, to your praise, the few wits here will say,
’Twas imitating you taught Haynes to play.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Duke of Mantua.
Prince Frederick, his son.
Aurelian, a Roman Gentleman.
Camillo, his friend.
Mario, Governor of Rome.
Ascanio, page of honour to the Prince.
Benito, Servant to Aurelian.
Valerio, confidant to the Duke.
Fabio, Servant to Mario.
Sophronia, Abbess of the Torr’ di Specchì.
Lucretia, a Lady designed to be a Nun.
Hippolita, a Nun.
Laura,
Violetta}
}Sisters, nieces to Mario.
Frontona, lets Lodgings.
SCENE — Rome.
ACT I.
SCENE I. — A Room, a great glass placed.
Enter Benito, with a guitar in his hand.
Ben. [Bowing to the glass.] Save you, sweet signior Benito; by my faith I am glad to see you look so bonnily to-day. Gad, sir, every thing becomes you to a miracle: your peruke, your clothes, your hat, your shoe-ties; and, gad, sir, let me tell you, you become every thing; you walk with such a grace, and you bow so pliantly!
Aurelian. [Within.] Benito, where are you, sirrah?
Ben. Sirrah! That my damned master should call a man of my extraordinary endowments, sirrah! A man of my endowments? Gad, I ask my own pardon, I mean a person of my endowments; for a man of my parts and talents, though he be but a valet de chambre, is a person; and let me tell my master — Gad, I frown too, as like a person as any jack-gentleman of them all; but, gad, when I do not frown, I am an absolute beauty, whatever this glass says to the contrary; and, if this glass deny it, ’tis a base lying glass; so I’ll tell it to its face, and kick it down into the bargain.
Aur. [Within.] Why, Benito, how long shall we stay for you?
Ben. I come, sir. — What the devil would he have? But, by his favour, I’ll first survey my dancing and my singing. [He plays on his guitar, and dances and sings to the glass.] I think that was not amiss: I think so. Gad, I can dance [Lays down the guitar.] and play no longer, I am in such a rapture with myself. What a villanous fate have I! With all these excellencies, and a profound wit, and yet to be a serving-man!
Enter Aurelian and Camillo.
Aur. Why, you slave, you dog, you son of twenty fathers, am I to be served at this rate eternally? A pox of your conceited coxcomb!
Cam. Nay, pr’ythee, Aurelian, be not angry.
Aur. You do not know this rogue, as I do, Camillo. Now, by this guitar, and that great looking-glass, I am certain how he has spent his time. He courts himself every morning in that glass at least an hour; there admires his own person, and his parts, and studies postures and grimaces, to make himself yet more ridiculous than he was born to be.
Cam. You wrong him, sure.
Aur. I do; for he is yet more fool than I can speak him. I never sent him on a message, but he runs first to that glass, to practise how he may become his errand. Speak, is this a lie, sirrah?
Ben. I confess, I have some kindness for the mirror.
Aur. The mirror! there’s a touch of his poetry too; he could not call it a glass. Then the rogue has the impudence to make sonnets, as he calls them; and, which is greater impudence, he sings them too; there’s not a street in all Rome which he does not nightly disquiet with his villanous serenade: with that guitar there, the younger brother of a cittern, he frights away the watch; and for his violin, it squeaks so lewdly, that Sir Tibert in the gutter mistakes him for his mistress. ’Tis a mere cat-call.
Cam. Is this true, Benito?
Ben. to Cam. [Aside.] My master, sir, may say his pleasure; I divert myself sometimes with hearing him. Alas, good gentleman, ’tis not given to all persons to penetrate into men’s parts and qualities; but I look on you, sir, as a man of judgment, and therefore you shall hear me play and sing.
[He takes up the guitar, and begins.
Aur. Why, you invincible sot you, will nothing mend you? Lay it down, or —
Ben. to Cam. Do ye see, sir, this enemy to the muses? he will not let me hold forth to you. [Lays down the guitar.] O envy and ignorance, whither will you! — But, gad, before I’ll suffer my parts to be kept in obscurity —
Aur, What will you do, rascal?
Ben. I’ll take up the guitar, and suffer heroically. [He plays, Aur. kicks.
Aur. What? do you mutiny?
Ben. Ay, do, kick till your toes ache; I’ll be baffled in my music by ne’er a foot in Christendom.
Aur. I’ll put you out of your tune, with a vengeance to you.
[As Aurelian kicks harder, Benito sings faster, and sometimes cries out.
Cam. holding Aur. Nay, then, ’tis time to stickle. Hold, Aurelian, pr’ythee spare Benito, you know we have occasion for him.
Aur. I think that was well kicked.
Ben. And I think that was well sung too.
Cam. Enough, Aurelian.
Ben. No, sir; let him proceed to discourage virtue and see what will come on it.
Cam. Now to our business. But we must first instruct Benito.
Aur. Be ruled by me, and do not trust him. I prophesy he’ll spoil the whole affair; he has a worm in his head as long as a conger, a brain so barren of all sense, and yet so fruitful of foolish plots,
that if he does not all things his own way, yet at least he’ll ever be mingling his designs with yours, and go halves with you; so that, what with his ignorance, what with his plotting, he’ll be sure to ruin you with an intention to serve you. For my part, I had turned him off long since, but that my wise father commanded the contrary.
Cam. Still you speak, as if what we did were choice, and not necessity. You know their uncle is suspicious of me, and consequently jealous of all my servants; but if we employ yours, who is not suspected, because you are a stranger, I doubt not to get an assignation with the younger sister.
Aur. Well, use your own way, Camillo: but if it ever succeed with his management —
Cam. You must understand then, Benito, that this old Signior Mario has two nieces, with one of which I am desperately in love, and —
Ben. [Aside to him.] I understand you already, sir, and you desire love reciprocal. Leave your business in my hands; and, if it succeed not, think me no wiser than my master.
Cam. Pray take me with you. These sisters are great beauties, and vast fortunes; but, by a clause in their father’s will, if they marry without their uncle’s consent, are to forfeit all. Their uncle, who is covetous and base to the last degree, takes advantage of this clause; and, under pretence of not finding fit matches for them, denies his consent to all who love them.
Ben. Denies them marriage! Very good, sir.
Cam. More than this, he refuses access to any suitor, and immures them in a mean apartment on the garden side, where he barbarously debars them from all human society.
Ben. Uses them most barbarously! Still better and better.
Cam. The younger of these sisters, Violetta, I have seen often in the garden, from the balcony in this chamber, which looks into it; have divers times shot tickets on the point of an arrow, which she has taken; and, by the signs she made me, I find they were not ill received.
Ben. I’ll tell you now, just such an amour as this had I once with a young lady, that —
Aur. Quote yourself again, you rogue, and my feet shall renew their acquaintance with your buttocks.
Cam. Dear Benito, take care to convey this ticket to Violetta; I saw her just now go by to the next chapel: be sure to stand ready to give her holy water, and slip the ticket into the hand of her woman Beatrix; and take care the elder sister, Laura, sees you not, for she knows nothing of our amour.
Ben. A word to the wise. Have you no service to Laura? [To Aur.
Aur. None that I shall trouble you withal; I’ll see first what returns you make from this voyage, before I put in my venture with you. Away; begone, Mr Mercury.
Ben. I fly, Mr Jupiter. [Exit.
Aur. This lady, Laura, I have seen from your balcony, and was seen by her. Methought, too, she looked with a languishing eye upon me, as who should say, Are you a man, and have no pity for a poor distressed virgin? For my part, I never found so much disposition in myself to love any woman at first sight. Handsome she is; of that I am certain.
Cam. And has wit, I dare assure you; but I have not heard she has admitted of any gallantry.
Aur. Her hour is not come yet; she has not met with a man to love; when that happens, (as I am resolved to push my fortune) you shall see that, as her love warms, her virtue will melt down, and dissolve in it; for there’s no such bawd to a woman, as her own wit is.
Cam. I look upon the assignation as certain; will you promise me to go? You and Benito shall walk in the garden, while I search the nymph within the shade. One thing I had forgot to tell you, that our general of the church, the Duke of Mantua, and the prince his son, are just approaching the gates of Rome. Will you go see the ceremony of their entrance?
Aur. With all my heart. They say he has behaved himself gallantly against the French, at their return from Naples. Besides, I have a particular knowledge of young prince Frederick, ever since he was last at our Venetian carnivals.
Cam. Away, then, quickly; lest we miss the solemnity. [Exeunt.
Enter Laura and Violetta, striving about a letter, which Laura holds.
Vio. Let it go, I say.
Lau. I say, let you go.
Vio. Nay, sweet sister Laura.
Lau. Nay, dear Violetta, it is in vain to contend; I am resolved I’ll see it.
[Plucks the paper from Violetta.
Vio. But I am resolved you shall not read it. I know not what authority this is which you assume, or what privilege a year or two can give you, to use this sovereignty over me.
Lau. Do you rebel, young gentlewoman? I’ll make you know I have a double right over you. One, as I have more years, and the other, as I have more wit.
Vio. Though I am not all air and fire, as you are, yet that little wit I have will serve to conduct my affairs without a governess.
Lau. No, gentlewoman, but it shall not. Are you fit, at fifteen, to be trusted with a maidenhead? It is as much as your betters can manage at full twenty.
For ’tis of a nature so subtile,
That, if it’s not luted with care,
The spirit will work through the bottle,
And vanish away into air.
To keep it, there nothing so hard is,
‘Twill go betwixt waking and sleeping;
The simple too weak for a guard is,
And no wit would be plagued with the keeping.
Vio. For aught I see, you are as little to be trusted with your madness, as I with my simplicity; and, therefore, pray restore my letter.
Lau. [Reading it.] What’s here? An humble petition for a private meeting? Are you twittering at that sport already, mistress novice?
Vio. How! I a novice at ripe fifteen? I would have you to know, that I have killed my man before I was fourteen, and now am ready for another execution.
Lau. A very forward rose-bud: You open apace, gentlewoman. I find indeed your desires are quick enough; but where will you have cunning to carry on your business with decency and secrecy? Secrecy, I say, which is a main part of chastity in our sex. Where wit, to be sensible of the delicacies of love? the tenderness of a farewell-sigh for an absence? the joy of a return? the zeal of a pressing hand? the sweetness of little quarrels, caused and cured by the excess of love? and, in short, the pleasing disquiets of the soul, always restless, and wandering up and down in a paradise of thought, of its own making?
Vio. If I understood not thus much before, I find you are an excellent instructor; and that argues you have had a feeling of the cause in your time too, sister.
Lau. What have I confessed before I was aware! She’ll find out my inclination to that stranger, whom I have only seen, and to whom I have never spoken — [Aside.] No, good Violetta, I never was in love; all my experience is from plays and romances. But, who is this man, to whom you have promised an assignation?
Vio. You’ll tell my uncle.
Lau. I hate my uncle more than you do.
Vio. You know the man, ’tis signior Camillo: His birth and fortunes are equal to what I can expect; and he tells me his intentions are honourable.
Lau. Have I not seen him lately in his balcony, which looks into our garden, with another handsome gentleman in his company, who seems a stranger?
Vio. They are the same. Do you think it a reasonable thing, dear Laura, that my uncle should keep us so strictly, that we must be beholden to hearsay, to know a young gallant is in the next house to us?
Lau. ’Tis hard, indeed, to be mewed like hawks, and never manned: To be locked in like nuns here.
Vio. They, that look for nun’s flesh in me, shall be mistaken.
Lau. Well, what answer have you returned to this letter?
Vio. That I would meet him at eight this evening, in the close walk in the garden, attended only by Beatrix, my woman.